It appeared in the church parking lot on Monday, all by its lonesome.
Still there Tuesday, though it had rotated itself 180 degrees, a more hopeful posture, facing the sidewalk instead of with its back turned.
Still there Friday, sheltering a drift of willow leaves.
I’m guessing a small person of the congregation was in that delicately calibrated zone where two socks are too warm, and no socks are too cold, but one sock is just right. And even though the sock contrasted nicely with his cuffed khakis and complimented his bow tie, or his sweater vest, or both, it was willing to come off because it, too, believed there are times when fashion must yield to comfort.
It wasn’t necessarily willing to spend the week downtown, outside, on asphalt. But it waited, patient, unafraid, marking time with the hourly song of the church bells.
The next Monday it was gone, I’m guessing found and gathered on Sunday and reunited with its foot.